


Or Show Me Heart

by Semperlitluv



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Ficlets, Jon Snow is Not a Stark, Other assorted tidbits, R Plus L Equals J, Upped the rating to M because it's getting saucy, if it's canon-era, if it's modern au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28784853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semperlitluv/pseuds/Semperlitluv
Summary: A collection of Jon/Sansa tidbits and prompts. Chapters are unrelated unless noted in their titles.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 40
Kudos: 47





	1. (Re)Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

> These bits of fic have been sitting unquietly in my phone's notes apps. Thanks to Dresupi, Meilan_Firaga and the rest of the Discord server for the encouragement to get them out in the world!

Sansa is distracted from contemplating the merits of ordering another $17 airport-quality martini by a light tap on her left shoulder.

“Sansa?”

The deep, rumbling voice doesn’t immediately register. As Sansa swivels on her barstool, though, the piercing grey gaze of the voice's owner is a bit of a shock.

“Jon!” A little wince at her own high-pitch tone. Surely she can’t be faulted for her surprise at seeing Jon Snow in the King’s Landing International airport of all possible places. For a few seconds, they stare at each other. Then, Jon hoists his duffle bag a little higher on his ( _broad_ , she marvels unwillingly) shoulder, runs a _(large)_ hand through his _(probably silky soft)_ curls, and gestures to the barstool next to Sansa.

“Mind if I join you?”

* * *

An hour later, as she watches him neatly settle their ridiculous bar tab so they can board the _(same damn)_ plane, Sansa hasn't shaken the mild surrealism of this rom-com run-in. Jon Snow had gotten hotter than sin, and he had also retained the adorably awkward yet compelling air that fueled Sansa’s preteen crush on her brother's best friend.

And she was about to sit next to him on a plane for 5 hours.

_Fuck._


	2. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short and was intended as a preamble to some yet-unwritten, embarrassingly kinky PWP. I'm really tired of seeing it in my notes app and not feeling inspired to write more, so here you go!

His girl is a vision from his lean against their bedroom door.

Even in the height of summer, her long legs are wrapped up in his flannel pajamas - _baby, I’m cold_ \- and the bedcovers are as much of a twisted nest as her fiery hair. He holds onto the doorframe for balance to remove his shoes. She's turning towards him and the door but she doesn’t stir from slumber. The nest of blankets turns with her.

She always did sleep better with something between her legs.


	3. An Anticipated Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sort of post-TV canon AU. Like the previous chapter, this was written as a lead-in to something racier that never made it to paper. Apologies for any mismatched tenses caused by multiple copy/paste edits.

It had been nearly two years into their marriage before a skirmish called Jon and their men out of the keep for a significantly longer journey than that of their routine hunting parties. Sansa, for all that she and the rest of the North had endured in the last decade, had been lulled into a sort of complacency by the interim peaceful months. Sure, her suspicions and fears never fully died. Sometimes it felt like she and Jon traded off the roles nightly of the comforter and the afflicted when it came to nightmares. But this call to assist the Umbers was the first time they had been parted for war, for danger since Jon returned from the burning of King’s Landing.

“Your Grace?” A short knock on the open solar door startles Sansa from her musing and pacing. Since Jon had ridden out twelve days prior with a group of two score and five men, she had felt an itching restlessness from dusk to dawn. In the daylight, no routine, daily tasks could hold her attention. Letters were picked up and put down unseen. Embroidery hoops littered her solar, their projects in various states of completion. If Sansa hadn't been able to manage the twice-weekly petitions from their subjects with her usual care and ease, she might have given up her crown altogether.

The knocking maid, Brella, continues when Sansa turns to the door. “His Grace’s riding party has been spotted and should return within the hour. The messenger reports only minor injuries among the group, and His Grace is unwounded.” Thank the Gods, Sansa thinks.

“Thank you, Brella. Please see that this,” Sansa passes Brella a parchment from the untidy stacks on her desk, “makes its way to the kitchens and is ready in the Great Hall for the men. The maester should be prepared to see to the wounded. And would you have a bath ready for His Grace?”

Once Brella departs, Sansa continues pacing and deliberating whether she should be in the Great Hall. She can scarcely recall the last time Jon returned to her at Winterfell without blushing down to her toes.

Perhaps she should receive her husband in his rooms.

_Or maybe in his bath._


	4. Turn the Beat Around

When the echoes of Sansa’s orgasm fade and the world around her snaps back into focus, she realizes that Jon is back to tapping his fingers.

He moved up her body while she caught her breath— curling around her with his head resting over her rib cage. His curls tickle the underside of her breasts. (This is not an unusual pose. Sansa finds comfort in his weight, finds it grounding.)

No, what’s unsettling is the drumline rolling across her hipbone. Jon has been acting strangely. He was awake and out the door before she had gotten out of bed. His response to her “where’d you go?” text came three hours later and simply said, “Had a couple of errands. I’ll bring dinner back.”

When he reappeared in their apartment that evening with takeout, he spent their shared meal tapping his fingers against the table, his glass, his chair. Sansa liked that she and Jon could be quiet with each other in a way that was missing in her previous relationships, but the silence tonight was not comfortable. He kept looking away anytime she’d try to catch his eye. The last time she had seen him this nervous was the night he broke up with Ygritte and told a bar full of people he was in love with Sansa Stark.

 _Oh, gods,_ her heart clenches as she thinks back on the last few weeks: _he’s been cagey about his schedule, he’s been weird about leaving his phone out... that’s textbook ‘he’s just not that into you’ behavior. But why would he go down on me directly after bringing me dinner if he wants to leave me?_ _Because he’s Jon. He got your favorite meal and gave you an orgasm because he’s the best man in the universe, and now he’s tapping his fingers on your hip while he tries to figure out how to tell you that he doesn’t love you anymore._

Sansa has felt enough pain to know that sometimes you just need to rip off the bandaid. “Jon, sweetheart,” she ventures quietly, “Is everything okay?”

His reply is incomprehensible, muffled between his beard and the spot where he’s buried his head under her breasts. Sansa strokes her hand across his cheek and jaw until she can gently pick up his chin and direct his face towards hers.

“Jon.” A deep breath. “Do you want to break up with me?”

He shoots upright so quickly that he’s almost a blur.

“What? No! Why would you ask that? Oh, gods. Do you want to break up with me?” She’s sitting up and pulling his fists out of his hair before he finishes speaking.

“No! Of course not! But Jon, you’ve been weird for weeks, and today, you just disappeared, and _you won’t stop tapping your fingers_ ,” Sansa replies with a squeeze to the digits in question.

“I regret irritating Arya enough before that poker game that she spilled everyone’s tells.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve never been good at hiding your feelings,” she says fondly.

Jon’s rueful half-smile is a balm to her aching heart, but she still doesn’t know what’s wrong, so she asks. “Nothing’s wrong, Sansa. Everything is the opposite of wrong, actually.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow, disbelieving. “If nothing’s wrong, then why are you acting so strangely?”

Jon huffs and stares at her for a moment. He nods — like he was looking for something in her countenance, and he’s found it — and leans off the bed, rummaging around in his nightstand and coming back with his left hand closed around something small.

“Tormund didn’t bring you another crystal, did he?” She tries for levity, but Sansa’s heart is racing. She can see now that Jon is holding a velvet drawstring bag. _The kind you’d put an eng-_ Sansa shakes the thought from her head.

Jon gives a gracious chuckle at her weak joke, but he’s tapping the fingers of his opposite hand on his thigh as he returns to face her. “No. But you’re not that far off-base.”

Sansa feels her heart rate tick up, and goosebumps show on her arms as Jon starts opening the pouch, grabbing her hand and flipping it palm-up between them. Something is happening, and her brain is a skipping record, lurching back and forth on a groove, unable to parse if this is really, truly happening.

A shining, antique-looking ring tumbles out of the pouch into Sansa’s outstretched hand.

“Nothing’s wrong, Sansa, because when I’m with you, I feel like we can make anything alright,” Sansa sees the shimmering in her eyes reflected in Jon’s as he takes a deep breath, “Will you marry me?”

Sansa lunges at Jon, flattening him across the bed and punctuating her reply of “Yes, yes, yes!” by dropping kisses anywhere she can reach. Finally, her lips land on his, and she’s reeling. _This is going to be the rest of my life,_ she thinks. 

“Jon,” Sansa says later, as she lays across his chest with his hand sweetly stroking over the ring on her finger, “we’re going to need a proposal story.” 

“A story?” 

“I’m not telling my parents that you proposed to me while we were both naked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s random outings were trips to collect Lyanna’s ring from storage, get it cleaned, and have it resized -- and to talk to Catelyn. Catelyn Stark strikes me as the type of woman who would be able to ascertain her daughter’s ring size casually and without suspicion. 
> 
> And yes, when Jon is nervous and needs comfort, he puts his face in Sansa’s crotch. We should all be so lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to do more creative activities for my own sanity, so if there's anything you'd like to see, drop a comment! I'll do my best. You can also find me as Semperlitluv on Tumblr.


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